


Putting On A Show

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, Frottage, High School, M/M, Plot What Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lightning fast Dean's grin slants into sly and Sam's stomach lurches hard enough that his lungs get jealous and jump in on the action. Without so much as a glance in Sam’s direction for approval, Dean lifts one shoulder and says, "I'll make out with Sam."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting On A Show

It’s kind of ironic, Sam’s always thought, that the last words out of his dad’s mouth every time he leaves is a reminder to Dean to ‘take care of Sammy’. Ironic because, Dean’s always the one who gets him into stuff he shouldn’t be doing in the first place.  
  
Of course, Dad doesn’t know that. Would have both of their hides if he ever found out that Sam’s sprawled out on Carly and Amber Townsend’s floor, totally entranced by the sensation of the carpet against his cheek. Also the pot. Actually, Dad would probably be more pissed about the pot. The ring of girls scattered around him on the living room rug Dad might actually be proud of.  
  
God knows Dean is.  
  
Ella Sarrett’s babbling on about something Sam tuned out two tokes ago from Dean’s other side. The words probably don’t matter anyway; from what Sam’s observed, anytime a cheerleader talks to Dean – and apparently talking to Dean Winchester is an activity integral to the function of all cheerleading squads everywhere – it’s really just an excuse to bat her eyes and flip her hair and maybe bend over to show off her spanky pants. Yes, they’re called spanky pants, Sam knows because Dean thinks this is the kind of valuable information Sam should be apprised of.  
  
Apprised is a funny word.  
  
Dean’s got this smirk on like he’s not catching any of the conversation either, probably busy imagining what color panties Ella has on and what they’ll look like on the floor. Next to Sam, Nora sighs and stares longingly at the side of Dean’s face, compulsively twirling a strand of over-bleached blonde hair around her finger. He wonders if Ella pulled rank on her or if they just flipped a coin over which one of them would get dibs on Dean.   
  
Seriously, the coin thing, it’s happened, Sam’s seen it. Girls are freaking insane.  
  
Sometimes Sam’s pretty sure he envies Dean. If they didn’t live like they do – if they were a normal family with a normal life and a normal home – he _knows_ he’d probably resent the hell out of his brother for being generally more awesome at existing than he is. That’s one of the only reasons that Sam’s sort of glad they aren’t normal.  
  
Dean’s all swagger and sex; built out of stocky, firm muscles just like the guys in those Calvin Klein ads that don’t make any sense because they’re hardly wearing clothes. Dean could be one of those models, anyone who’s ever taken a glance at him knows that; handsome and strong and exactly the kind of son that would belong to a man like John Winchester.  
  
Sam, on the other hand, looks more like a puppet with nobody pulling the strings. He’s a little taller than Dean now, even though he got his growth spurt later and it looks like it’s making up for lost time since the constant upward momentum shows no signs of ending. Where Dean’s all polished curves and smooth planes – the goddamn Impala come to life, and isn’t that just poetic – Sam’s knobby joints and odd angles, nothing ever quite fitting together the way it’s supposed to. Even his muscles – as strong as Dean’s, they've had plenty of sparring practice to prove that – are flat and wiry, nothing like they’re supposed to look. He wouldn’t have needed any help figuring out which one of them was the hot Winchester, even if he hadn’t had it confirmed by the hungry glances in every school and diner and backwater town they’d ever stopped in.  
  
It doesn’t really hit him quite how high he is until he gets so hung up on the little bit of grit perpetually trapped under Dean’s fingernails that he misses Dean snapping his fingers in front of Sam’s face.  
  
The question on his tongue comes out a grunt instead when he lips don’t feel like working right this second. Dean laughs, pitch a little north of his usual voice, giddy-pleased, and wafts the tip of the expertly rolled blunt at him.  
  
“Sammy, your turn.”  
  
The girls do that weird tittery thing that girls do sometimes. Always makes Sam think of those tiny, hoppy birds that hang around birdfeeders chattering at each other. Sam’s also thinking it might not actually be his turn, he feels like he just had one a couple of seconds ago. He’s not really following it around the circle, though and his body has gone way too noodley to fight about it.  
  
It takes three tries to get his hand on the joint, Dean pulling away just enough every time Sam gets close with his shot-to-shit hand-eye coordination. Just as he’s ready to give up – not being able to grab the weed is probably a good sign that he’s had enough – Dean takes his hand and carefully fits the crinkly paper between Sam’s fingers. Stops off on the way back to rub the tip of his finger into the dip of Sam’s dimple so the rough whorls of his fingerprint ruffle the peach fuzz and turn it all tingly and sensitive.  
  
A female voice says, “He’s cute.” Sam’s too busy dragging his arm through the syrupy air up to his mouth to inhale another curlicue lick of smoke to catch which one of the girls it was. It’s definitely Dean’s hand in his hair though, scratching at the scalp just hard enough to make Sam’s eyelids fall like the curtains at the end of a show.  
  
“’Course he is. Good genes.”  
  
Sam smiles absently, watching the hazy grey shapes his exhale makes against the taupe ceiling. He’s never met anyone that painted their ceilings before. Seems like a lot of work for something nobody’s going to pay attention to. Unless maybe the Townsends spend a lot of time laying on their living room floor. If so, they should having painted something more interesting on it. Or hung a TV up there. That’d be sweet.  
  
"You two should make out." Dean says it all sultry low and loose, like the words are just pouring off his tongue of their own accord. It's how he always sounds when he’s buzzed but it kind of turns Sam on anyway. Sort of inconvenient under the circumstances but Sam's got enough chemicals humming in his veins not to really care if his dick is a little chubby in his jeans where somebody might see it. To even want them to see it, just a little bit.  
  
"Wow, could you be a little more stereotypical?" Carly smirks back. Sam can’t see it, but he knows the sound of a smirk; it’s the Winchester mating call. Ends up lolling his head to the side to catch a glimpse of her leaning forward with her arms braced in front, boobs pushed up between them so her cleavage is even more obvious. That definitely isn't a ‘no’.  
  
Behind her, Amber watches with a less convinced version of the exact same face; pouty pink lips and bright cheeks, black and gold glitter on her eyelids, the curls in her hair falling out from the sweat she must have worked up during the pep rally. Then again, she doesn't look like it's anything they haven't done before either. Hot twin cheerleaders, that's not exactly a surprise - it's like high school fantasy number one.  
  
Sam snakes a hand into his pocket to ninja-grope his cock.  
  
Like she thinks he might have forgotten her – like she cares one way or the other – Nora sprawls out next to him and leans up against Sam's side, takes a hit off of the blunt still held limply in Sam’s fingers. The sticky gloss on her lips clings to the pads of his fingers, smeared by this tiny flick of her tongue that has Sam’s dick getting distinctively warmer against his opposite palm. She's probably trying to disguise the little wrinkle of her nose as she blows the smoke out again in sloppy puffs but Sam just thinks it's cute, runs his pinkie finger down the slope of it to the little button tip. She smacks his hand and takes the joint to pass over to Claire, but her scowl is playful and she's sidling in even closer after so Sam doesn't feel bad.  
  
The rasp of Dean’s palms on the carpet seems buzzsaw-loud as he leans forward too, knuckles bumping against Carly's, the backs of his fingers teasing at the fine bones of her hand. "C'mon, it can be our little secret."  
  
"There’s, like, seven of us, dude," Sam points out helpfully, because sometimes Dean needs a reminder that he can't just smile and get whatever he wants. Also, he deserves some pay back for the keep-away thing a minute ago.  
  
Dean slaps a hot handprint to Sam's leg in response and tosses him the finger.  
  
Amber finally decides to chime in here, although she's still not looking particularly opposed. "It's totally sexist. Everybody just assumes it’s ok for us to make out because we're _girls_ and _lesbians are hot_. We’re still totally sisters, ya know? You'd freak the fuck out if we asked you and Sam to make out."  
  
Lightning fast Dean's grin slants into sly and Sam's stomach lurches hard enough that his lungs get jealous and jump in on the action. Without so much as a glance in Sam’s direction for approval, Dean lifts one shoulder and says, "I'll make out with Sam."  
  
It seems like nobody else knows what to do with that because Sam can feel Nora freeze in surprise against him, see it on Carly and Amber's faces, hear Ella gasp like in one of those old murder mysteries on public access late at night. Dean, naturally, makes the most of the opportunity, slithering in against the side of Sam’s body Nora's not taking up and running a hand up his chest.  
  
“You’re gonna hold up your end, though, right? We make out, you make out.” His fingers are plucking at the hem of Sam’s t-shirt – which technically belongs to both of them since jeans are the only thing they’re really different sizes in nowadays – whispers of cooler air gusting in as he does, making Sam’s stomach muscles flutter.  
  
His breath leaves hot, damp spots on Sam’s cheek that set him shivering. The curve of Dean’s smile teases against his skin, playing at the idea until the girls really agree. As if he wouldn’t do it anyway, just looking for an excuse.  
  
Drunk or high, any kind of substance in his system at all, and Dean turns into a total hedonist. Well, ‘turns into’ probably isn’t true, Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s a hedonist all the time, but it really shines when his brother’s got something encouraging him to let go. The pot would be enough, the audience more than, getting to watch twin girl-on-girl cheerleader action afterward just a cherry on top.  
  
“Yeah, they will.” It isn’t Carly or Amber who says it, tight and a bit disbelieving still. Sam thinks it might have been Claire but Dean’s busy dragging his lips dry around the curve of Sam’s jaw and it makes him lose the thread of conversation.  
  
Nora must have moved at some point because then Dean’s rolling him under, warm weight against Sam’s chest, firm thigh between his legs, rubbing up against his cock once he remembers to drag his hand out of his pocket to get it out of the way. Dean’s already hard against his hip, might have been for a while, bulging against his jeans right out there where the girls could see it and get wet over it.  
  
Sometimes he thinks Dean screwed him up big time somewhere in his formative years that those kinds of ideas get Sam hot.   
  
He’s done research about this kind of stuff, how early life and pre-sexual influences effect the way a person develops. Dean asking to use him as kissing practice when Sam was eight probably has something to do with the way Sam moans when his brother’s tongue pushes into his mouth, take-no-prisoners rough and filthy. That time in Vermont when Dad was two weeks late on a drawn out hunt and they let the landlord watch Dean give Sam a blow job to make up for the rent they were short on might be to blame for how Sam’s dick pulses slick against his thigh at the stunned, turned-on sound that one of the girls makes. How his leg wraps around Dean’s hip to pull him in harder and really turn the slow grind nasty when Dean makes that growly wanna-fuck-you sound around the mark he’s sucking onto Sam’s throat… ok, that one might just be Sam’s own fault.  
  
The point is, he doesn’t need books to tell him that it’s wrong that he wants to get all up on his brother more than one of the girls he could have maybe swung some over-the-shirt action with a minute ago, it’s just that he has yet to figure out how to make himself give a damn about it.  
  
Dean never really goes easy with it unless one of them is hurt, and even then it’s hit or miss. Now, with the attention on them and some seriously high quality shit fogging up everything until it’s oversaturated and intense, he doesn’t even want Dean to slow up.   
  
The harsh shove of Dean’s hips is candy-sweet jolting through Sam’s system on a time-delay, force of it skidding him an inch up the carpet only to get hauled right back again by Dean’s hands on his shoulders, digging into his ribs. The motion rucks his shirts up enough that the small of his back grates against the floor the next time, a hot little kiss that’s going to turn into rug burn fucking fast and he doesn’t even care.  
  
Then it doesn’t matter because Dean’s dragging the shirts up even further until the fabric’s bunched around Sam’s armpits, doing the same to his own so they’re skin on skin. A moan drags out of Sam at the feel of it. He’s sunburn-hot, radiating with it, leaking through his jeans and too pot- and fuck-stupid to do anything about it but paw at Dean. Too slow to work out what’s happening when the room spins like a cement mixer around them until they’re both on their sides.  
  
 _Better view,_ he thinks, boxers sticking to the head of his twitching cock at the reminder that they’re being watched.  
  
There's too much denim and thick seams for this to be any kind of reasonable definition of good but damn if it's not doing it for Sam anyway. Then again it's not like he usually makes Dean work real hard for it anyway, so whatever.  
  
Sharp pain brings Sam’s breath in a hiss, soothed away the next second by Dean’s tongue swiping away the imprint of his own teeth from Sam’s bottom lip. Something Sam doesn’t catch gets mumbled into his chin and then Dean’s tongue-fucking the little hollow where Sam’s dimple hides. The big hand in his back pocket is gripping so tight Sam’s almost scared he’ll bruise before he remembers nobody but Dean’s going to be looking at his ass anyway.  
  
His brother must mean business now because he’s doing that dip-swivel thing at rubs Sam’s dick and balls at the same time, almost like dancing, if the point of dancing was to get somebody come in their pants. Which is actually exactly how it ended the first time Dean tried to teach him to dance, now that he thinks about it.  
  
Dean’s making those growly sounds again, stuttered because of how hard he’s breathing. Practically lifts Sam off the floor to rub against him harder. It's ok because Sam's not doing any better, sounds coming out of him all weird and choppy and his hands clasping weakly at Dean's shoulders as the rough heat twists low in his gut.   
  
Something that might maybe be Sam's name buzzes against his lips, flies a shaky pattern down to build a hive at the base of his spine. Dean licks his way in after it, slick and desperate. Gets caught up somewhere between panting and sucking on Sam's tongue and Sam kind of fails to actually care because he's busy choking to death on the like velocity or the potential energy or the fuck, freaking physics class what the even-   
  
He comes so hard his vision goes black and white.   
  
Most of the time Dean’s got better stamina than Sam, but this is the kind of stuff that gets Dean revved up bad so Sam’s not surprised when his brother’s not far behind him, bucking and whining and totally hamming it up. Still really freaking hot, especially when Sam can feel Dean’s dick pulse-kick against his hip as he loses it.   
  
Flopping back onto the floor, the mess in Sam’s jeans shifts around, sticky and clinging. After all of the rushed, stolen moments over the years he keeps expecting to get used to this feeling but it’s still just as gross every time.  
  
The girls don’t really look like they agree, though, and wow, it suddenly occurs to Sam that they just gave the cheerleaders a lot more than they paid for. Er, didn’t pay for. Whatever. They’re all staring, lip biting and cheek blushing and heavy breathing – kind of shocked and scandalized and turned on all at once. And yeah, Sam’s definitely going to blame Dean for the shaky heat that blooms in his belly seeing the want on their faces, knowing he’s part of the reason.  
  
He’s got a feeling he’s not the only one feeling the same, not with the look Dean tosses his way, tongue curling over kiss-bitten lips.   
  
“Ladies,” Dean grins like a fox, “Your turn.”


End file.
